The Resurgence of Diablo
by SuperMudz
Summary: Part One
1. Chapter 1

**The Resurgence of Diablo**

**PART ONE**

by Maru Tamehana

* * *

_Chapter One_

VALOUR

* * *

The angels were convened in Angirim Council to consider this last proposal. Although Tyrael had shed his immortality, and dwelled between places as a mortal who was nonetheless one of the angel's most prominent arch-angels, he now led the Angirim Council himself, and Justice reigned now in the Heavens. Although the Arch-Angel of Valour had to step down from the position, once filled by Wisdom – the angels had been in some doubt, but the doubts had been dispelled in time.

But for this latest debate, they were asked if a human, a monk, could elevate themselves to the status of an angel. After all, Tyrael had made himself into a man, with mortal flesh and blood, although without the daemonic taint of the race of humanity. This alone, stood him apart.

"We were produced by the Crystal Arch, a human cannot simply become one of us." The Archangel known as the Angel of Valour proclaimed from his place.

Ithariel nodded, although her veil glimmered with the shadow of angelic sadness.

Then matters turned to the world in the state it was after the defeat of Diablo, the king of daemons - and even Malthael, an angel much beloved who had turned to the destruction and death of humanity recently, in order to bring about his own vision of justice without compassion. As he was the Angel of Wisdom once, that was no doubt the lens through which he perceived his actions, but just as Tyrael could not see the wisdom in it, he could neither see the justice, something which he was pre-eminent to judge, if that were not a tautologous announcement worthy of these sacred halls.

It seemed that any one attribute, taken too far, lost it's place eventually, without a shared understanding to balance it. Malthael had become the extreme vision of his own pursuit, and as there was no need to restrict things on a being of purity, such as an angel, he had no restraint, and followed it all the way to the end, even when it was the extinction of humanity itself, which an angel should have been bound to protect.

It seemed it was a folly of its own, and Tyrael had spent much of his new mortal life studying this. Angels were self-sufficient creatures, of an irony with their unity and despite their Council (and this was perhaps why it was necessary), but their greatness and their strength could risk them all. Tyrael himself knew himself to be often accused of this.

His own fall to Sanctuary had awakened many dangerous spirits which had taken some heroic effort to quell.

An angel must turn his attention to mighty matters, but would humans be lost in the scuffle? Was he not wise enough? He was not Malthael, and it was tempting to believe that Justice prevailed over all other things, but that was precisely as Malthael believed – in his own Wisdom.

Perhaps there was a time coming when they would all be put on trial. He did not know whether the thought amused him or not – it was certainly a grave matter.

Grave thought for an angel, but he must dwell on them all the same. He missed occasionally, the feel of his wings and power – but he would walk in humility with what was given him. He had received freely since the beginning, perhaps now was the time that he would repay a debt that never could be.

He wondered what Imperius would make of that? But then again, Tyrael supposed that wasn't what was important.

He had heard there were other angels out in the world. Those who had separated from Heaven, on journeys of their own. The Enchantress spoke of one that was well known – who she knew as the Prophet, and had many disturbing details to relate on her own account. Ones which it was not Tyrael's place to pry into.

Tyrael had however, promised that if they ever wished it, he would provide the mortals transport back to Heaven, and there were angels there who might have time for them.

The gateway between Sanctuary and the High Heavens had been crossed for the first time, and the angels found this time appropriate to once again let their presence be known among mortals.

Before this, merely legend, appearing as a light in dark dungeons to the lost hero here and there. Tyrael himself had a great love for humanity and this world, and strove to aid them. But he was not the only angel who had yielded to compassion, who was moved by those traits of nobility held in high regard.

Even Imperius, though he did not speak of it, must have once. Unyielding though he was – there must have been someone, a warrior amongst men, who had gotten his invincible attention. The darkness of demons was a threat to all creation, and always the angels drew plans on how to combat it.

Tyrael spoke. "Although Diablo is not walking the world yet again, still his shadow precedes him, sweeping into every nook and cranny, searching out those with a weakness to sin, in the lowest basements or the farthest reaches of lands even I have not espied in my time walking there."

The Angirim Council had all agreed that this issue was, as always, paramount – and perhaps the time for restraining intervention in Sanctuary could be lessened, given the wantonness of the demons that coveted it. They were glutted with greed, able to slake their demonic thirst on the weaker inhabitants of Sanctuary, fleeing rather than braving the swords of angels. But there were stout men among them, who had proven themselves able heroes – and so the demons would perhaps no longer find their presence as tolerated as it was hidden before. Tyrael himself, believed in strengthening the humans for their own battles, and at the least, forewarned was forearmed.

"Then let us illuminate it as angels. I myself shall seek out this land." The Angel of Valour spoke, and flourished his burning wings before the Council.

Barely the word was given before he departed. The other angels took note – the angel was decisive as always, and no doubt would gain results.

In this, Tyrael concurred. Whatever his faults, the Angel of Valour was a spirit who battled for the light, harsh and unforgiving though he might be. Even he was forced to accept the valour of those heroes who had struggled against Diablo, many of them perishing before the greatest of their number managed the killing blow at the last battle.

It had been desperate folly, and yet the mortal had prevailed. Tyrael would never cease to be astonished by it – perhaps the angels overlooked humankind too often.

After all, it was angels that attempted to curtail the potential of humanity originally. Tyrael wondered, if their former might was restored, would they have reason to fear Hell any longer? Or had Heaven, in its infinite wisdom, made them into sheep, cattle to be butchered, and congratulated themselves for their superiority, doling out false admiration on the few heroes to break free of those shackles they themselves placed on them.

So many things to think on, and with mortals, eternity was too long or not long enough.

"Go, angel of Valour," he spoke, and for a moment it was as if Heaven spoke with him, shimmering from every tower and sparkling edifice. "Go and find our answers."

Imperius, perhaps, had much to prove.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

THE CAGE

* * *

The archangel was captured.

_"__Im-possible," _the angel of valour struggled in denial against the wizard's bonds – the crystal glowed around him.

The wizard kept harpies of jewelled and coloured gems. It was indeed a splendid tower, and Imperius had felt a tremor of a site of significance when passing over it. The work of wizards, it would seem, but clearly this place had been reaching into other planes, and perhaps those had reached back. With his sword he would seal it, but not before he had escaped this trap of mortal cunning, which pinned his wings and bound him against combat. His sword floated in the crystal cage, scant inches next to him, but he could not reach for it.

"A relic left over from your vaunted Angel of Wisdom," the wizard said, his words slow and cruel. "To capture an angel is no easy thing, but a great vaunt, methinks. Great enough for Heaven, even, I think." He laughed then – his throat possessed by the frailty of mortal flesh, but there was power behind it.

"What is it that you want, mortal?" and there was the desire for vengeance, to destroy, in the angel's flaming eyes. Where had the wizard learned this? Had he penetrated into the plane of Pandemonium, the field of Eternal Conflict where angels and demons had battle since the beginning? Had he somehow navigated the labrynthine plot of the Fortress where Malthael had sequestered himself?

And did all of this without being noticed by higher powers? It seemed beyond belief, but the angel detected no deceit.

"I want to understand the nature of evil. And I think it's with you angels that I shall start."

"Us?" the angel's voice was both startled and offended. "What have _we _to do with sin?"

The wizard tapped on the casket contained the fragment of the black soulstone. "You ask that? Truly? Perhaps you should think back then."

"Malthael was mad." Was all the angel said, and then he said no more – withdrawing into himself in some manner even the wizard did not perceive. It was well, though, there was nothing he could do – that prison was fashioned partially by the craft of the same angels. He had worried that perhaps their greatest arch-angels would therefore know an escape – but it seemed they did their work too well, and even they could not barter with what they had wrought. A weakness in wisdom, perhaps.

(*)

High above, in the High Heavens, itself – a small band of mortals waited, resting in the gardens, while angels appeared and disappeared, sometimes flickering just out of sight, glimpsed in a moment's turning and then gone.

There were libraries here – fantastic things that could barely be described. Many magical shelves that were placed as if simply waiting for the mortals to read them, to peruse their tomes. The Enchantress had lost many hours. The barbarian realised there was much he didn't know about her. But perhaps that was better left to Kormac, who had developed an affection for the magic-wielding lass.

"I wish we had time to study these texts," the barbarian sighed. And then wondered what the oxygen would do up here in Heaven.

(*)

The wizard had summoned a daemon to watch his cage.

"And what did he promise you, daemon?"

It shrugged, tongue flashing around its long fangs, distorted by the hatred of Hell. "What all mortals promise, the flesh, death and blood – their screaming at my claws as I rip their quivering life from them." It laughed, the sound of daemon echoing through the tower, while the angel gazed in quiet fury. "Oh – he said something about power and glory, a place in his legion, things like that – " it examined it's claws. "He seemed to think himself persuasive, as such mortals do – but I think I shall gut him the first moment the spell is complete."

"You are not tempted, then?"

The daemon grinned at him. "You mock me."

"You speak a lot, for a daemon."

"Oh yes, I see. You want to know the designs of Hell." Then he yawned. "But I grow bored. I promised only to watch your cage – to strengthen it with my powers." And he laughed again.

"What would the wizard say if he knew you had no such powers?"

"Oh, I don't think we need to go mentioning that to him. I think I shall just wait for his return." And he licked his claws.

"I would be tempted to free you, if I did not know of you so well. Oh yes, even I, in the deepest part of Hell, heard of the exploits of Heaven's mighty arch-angel."

"You are right. My first act would be to slay you."

The daemon shuddered, and then grinned again. Then lay down, it's head on its claws.

The angel wondered at its options.

(*)

The wizard returned. Imperius said, "So you then, are the architect of all this madness? It seems like a rather large work for one mortal."

The wizard seemed annoyed for a moment. "My master comes soon, angel. And when he does – we shall no longer have to fear the works of Heaven, the hubris of you angels. And you shall be here – his first prize."

"That is all I needed to know, mortal." Imperius said. And he stretched his flaming orange wings - the wizard stood back in shock for a moment, and the angel disappeared. His departure created a vortex of energy that destroyed the room and everything in it – blasting the tower in half.

If the wizard had escaped he did not know, but he was certain to ascertain that in the course of things if it mattered. He had remained long enough only to ensure that the breach was sealed. If it was opened again, then he knew he must return, this time with a regiment to scour out the land which endangered all else. Certainly the demon had met its end, so if the mortal was fortunate, he was not languishing in Hell at this moment. The Archangel of Valour had little time, either way. Let the angels of mercy decide when it was time – there was a War brewing, and his mind must be upon that.

There was more to see. Leaving the wizard's tower behind, he decided to look for what else had been hidden in this "Sanctuary", the plane that the mortals called their world. If events turned out unwell, they would see angels indeed – but not as their saviours, but avenging spirits, and Sanctuary might be shattered in truth like was threatened so long ago.

That is why angels were so seldom seen – it was to protect this human world more than anything. If angels struck, so too would Hell, and humanity would be caught in the grind – the Eternal Conflict spilling over greater than anything they had even seen – even the vanguard of Azmodan which had dared show itself here.

If it was necessary, Imperius would lead the force that would shatter this world, and they would repair what they may afterward. Perhaps that would be the end of Sanctuary, but also the threat of Hell, and then angels would then have Eternity in which to carve a new beginning – without the tainted blood of demons infecting the new work.

Or not. Imperius shrugged. He was little concerned with it either way. But certainly he would be hearing from Tyrael on the matter.

He flew across the plain, noting the dragons that lay beneath the surface, the small lizards and the grains of sand, the wind that carved into it like so many trillions of daggers. There were few things that noted the passing of an angel, lighter than a breeze as it explored the entire surface of the shifting sands.

There were many vaults, tombs and places of power built here by sorcerors and beings long ago – it was the perfect place for their isolated wishes. If there were guardians, Imperius would meet them.

He entered the greatest of vaults, where it was said one of his kind dwelled long ago. He would know. It seemed Tyrael was not the only one who raised up servants. There _were_ guardians, huge and looming suddenly out of the darkness, their insides churning with magicked metals. With shattering thunder, he destroyed the two metallic guardians, their gem-like eyes fading in destruction. Whatever devices had been prepared, they were not sufficient for the Archangel of Valour. His blade hummed as it returned to rest, and with one hand he pushed open the entrance.

The crystals hummed and warned of his arrival, hearing and singing the music of his words. No mortal would understand the music, but they would understand the warning. And this told him much of the inhabitants that were once here. He looked down at his feet, his cowl shifting slightly in a breeze that did not touch the mundane world. The entire surface of the room floor was crossed, like the wheel of a cart. Appropriate, he thought. He raised his sword and smote it, and it collapsed in like the glass floor of High Heaven.

Perhaps a footstool here – he recognised this place. It was not merely holy, and perhaps something else, it was a place where angels had met. He frowned – it was, somehow, despite having only shadows where light should be, much like the chamber for the Angirim Council.

It was like the reflection in a dark pool, it captured the image perfectly, but captured it in darkness and dimness where the original had light. What did this reflection mean? These questions followed the ordinarily unperturbable angel, as he descended, knowing what he was looking for without ever having been here before.

In the centre of the chamber he discovered at the last, beyond all the other works preceding it, he did find something.

The angel of Valour stood and stared down at it. "This Book is shattered!" He exclaimed.

It had the runes of holy angelic work about it, this was a work of High Heaven itself, and it had been shattered! Frantically, he turned the pages – so much of its work was lost to this blasphemy!

Valour was needed in Heaven, and could not delay long. But he had discovered some of the answers the Angirim sought. Perhaps Tyrael would be able to discover more – he had a liking for these humans, he had had many of them store knowledge, apparently – perhaps he would make some use of them.

When he was done, he finished spying out the lands where the humans were sounding their horns and beat on their drums, overture to a larger spectacle that would sweep over sanctuary, no demons save what was in the humans' heart. There would be many fights ahead, this the angel could foresee. He observed their war-making, their armies, and then he left, disappearing for his home.

(*)

_Imperius had returned. _The word had preceded him, and now he stood before the council again, his wings barely left the touch of the mortal world.

"Places from before the founding of the world. They were moved here after Sanctuary was formed, by our rebellious brothers and sisters. It must have cost much of their remaining strength to do so – but it seemed as they were to be part of the world, populating it, they had little else to use it for. Their final acts, guard-houses against the war. Not just against the daemons, but the angels that would seek them – us."

His report was lengthy, but the angels all listened without stirring or a murmur.

It was little secret that Imperius had little care for Sanctuary, an accident, and a foolish hiding place for his once brothers and sisters fleeing a righteous war in his eyes, and that was all.

That valour touched humanity concerned him not at all. He did not see value in it as Tyrael did, and they fought over it constantly, as he had the entire Council. Not all felt as Imperius did, but they often did not see its importance weighed against their war against the demons. Unfortunate.

Only at the end of his report did any speak.

"It seems, Imperius, that you could have remained to question the mortal somewhat longer. Or perhaps captured him yourself."

"Having found an escape, I decided it was wise to destroy the enemy rather than risk entrapment a second time. Whoever his master is, surely he is a powerful being."

(*)

The council ended, and the angels had much to debate among themselves. Tyrael himself now roamed the high halls, deep in thought. He paused on an arching walkway, spying a pedestal that seemed to form entirely out of a wish he had not yet thought of. As if awaiting him. And he sensed the hand of Destiny, and so he had paused to inspect it.

As he was now the leader of the Angirim Council, and yet mortal – he felt a heavy burden – so much he needed to learn. The angel's sight and horizons had no limits – and yet they had been unprepared. It had taken the heroic heart and spirit of one noble mortal to free them from their own shackles at the hands of Hell – a battle that should never had touched the mortal world in the first place.

Humans were so weak and frail – angels were the only ones with the power to resist Hell. But it seemed these Nephaelm were determine to prove that truth wrong – they had waded into the lapping fires and fought with mortal blood spilled, flesh seared, sword swinging, until they had wrested their victories from the demons. Diablo and his brothers themselves slain by great knights.

Tyrael laughed for a moment, and the shimmering mirrors caught his levity, reflected it through the great crystal halls.

An angel paused for a moment. "Something amusing, brother?"

He closed the book with a smile, and closed his eyes. "Everything."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

TYRAEL

* * *

The demonlords were gone, but Pandemonium still crawled with their minions, feeding on each other and growing. Tyrael himself, had decided to go on a search, having learned what Imperius had learned. And it was to Pandemonium first, that he went.

Then to the world of mortals, to seek out his warriors there, the Horadrim, those who were empowered to carry on the fight against darkness – for Tyrael foresaw a time, as always, when humanity would need them.

Something was waiting for him. Something was waiting for the angels down here, he was certain of that now.

He searched the broken catacombs beneath the church in New Tristram, much of it lost and destroyed and sealed in by the mighty battle that had occurred then. The first human hero that had confronted Diablo and won. No easy thing for an angel, let alone a mortal – yet it seemed there was strength in them, as Tyrael had hoped.

Beyond the machinations of angels and demons, he had hoped for them to discover this, and for him to discover it in them. Many times he had lost hope, thinking they would never rise above – but in that one man in the beginning, he had seen the light he had searched for. Of course, there were many worthy – but always they were dying, outnumbered, outcast, or ignored. A fading light was cause for fear, not hope – although he had learned more than he expected, living as one of them.

Even a fading light could be renewed – strengthened – improved. More added to its number.

One day the sun itself would reveal the darkness – and no more would the inhabitants of Sanctuary be half-blinded. If in some small measure he could pass on his own power to them, he would do so.

He had been attacked as soon as he had entered – either Imperius had stirred their enemies, or Tyrael had been careless, or his new mortality had made him a target somehow.

What was this new thing? Angel or demon? His senses cried out in alarm as he attempted to discern its true nature. Not just angelic, but mortal senses warred with each other.

It seemed the Stone had been used, but in microcosm, merely this chamber, and this… it seemed he was doing as had been done long ago… but was this a mortal's work? Surely, the demons must be having a hand in it once again, in return for something unknown.

With a blast of holy light, the thing paused, then shrank back, then disappeared into the darkness – learning the lesson that one should be afraid to face an angel. Perhaps it had been fooled by the human face he now wore.

Undisturbed now, Tyrael searched the ancient library. His memories of it were from thousands of years ago, when he first sought to convene those that would be called Horadrim. They had been great library keepers, and he noted with approval that their magics to preserve these texts were still in power even after all this time – even he, with eternity to spare, was impressed by it.

The Horadrim that accompanied him was marked by his courage, and he did not flinch and yield, but met each shadow and threat with resolve. He was learning well, and quickly learning how to dispatch the demons that attacked out of hatred. Thankfully, it was only small rabble so far.

They came before the monolith, massive.

"What is it?" For the Horadrim had never seen it before, only had it described, clearly overwhelmed by it since he should have recognised it immediately. The angel Tyrael drew closer, wondering. "It is a Planestone." He observed it's vast curve, that seemed to defy the mortal eye – but he was no ordinary mortal, even if much of his old power and powers were lost to him.

Yet perhaps here it would be a strength, rather than a weakness of the angels they might be subject to. He mused on himself, musing on his own form as a new canvas, a new song. It was flesh, no longer the cardinal pure notes of Heaven – perhaps it represented the ability to write new notes, with the flesh. Such a strange concept – flesh was such a prison, and yet here, it presented some advantage, despite all its weaknesses.

He felt the need for food again. He had experimented, ignoring it, but eventually found himself growing faint. His strength of will sustained him, but it was strength he would need.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

SANCTUARY

* * *

High in Heaven, the heroes that vanquished Diablo were preparing to leave – the angels had provided passage back to Sanctuary. There was much to do.

It had been months.

The barbarian had much to do, and had spent his time hunting. Although Diablo was defeated, and Malthael the angel cast down – still there was not yet a time for him to do nothing, as events continued to transpire. This time however, it was a mission of personal note to him – although he must do it alone for the most part.

Occasionally he regretted Malthael's demise, although he regretted little – for one reason only. And on those occasions he wondered if some other device would have served the destruction of Diablo better. For Diablo held the soul of an innocent girl, and Malthael had become the destructive vanguard of death – its angel. He had learned much of death, the difference between light and dark, the afterlife, in the process of many of these battles – but still one thing eluded him, beyond all other questions.

But at those times he learned to forget his questions, to be as the angels were, to search ahead for the light, the deed done. Such was the way of his people as well – regrets merely added burdens to the road ahead. If a mistake occurred, the answer was not to dwell upon the failure, but search for the solution. Only in that way did one grow wiser and stronger – and it seemed even in the Heavens, this was indeed a valuable quality. Strange to think, it was a spiritual quality, and it was not so foolish or hidden where the angels were concerned.

Astounding sometimes how simple facts came to light, and they were indeed great.

He examined the device in his hands, still mesmerised by it. It was a prize of sorts, after the defeat of Diablo – although he had not felt victorious as he had hoped. There was an emptiness that often accompanied the defeat of demons, but one he had gotten used to. One did not look into Hell expecting to find the comfort of warm memories.

"What is this?" he had asked, when the angel Ithariel had given it to him. It looked like a horn. "It is a Note of High Heaven. It was created much in the same way angels were."

"Is it alive, then?"

"Ask it yourself. It is a mystery to us as well as mortals – that is why we study it, and keep it in our sacred arcaneum. Ithariel had spent much time with it – perhaps you could speak with her."

There was something about her – even though there was nothingness in the hood – of beauty.

He wondered suddenly if their hoods were truly empty, or if their true faces were merely so beautiful they would blind mortals, or could not be seen by them.

He would have preferred a sword of angelic make – but Imperius had refused absolutely to allow it when he had asked.

Strange, there were other places in the world where one might go to seek out such things. The Templar Order had, according to what he had learned with his friend, been fashioning angelic weapons for their own soldiers. Surely it was not too much to ask, as he planned to wage battle against Hell, the ultimate enemy.

He had wielded several of the strange and beautiful weapons, arranged on their racks of war on those marble heights, waiting as if just for him, to choose and wield in the final battle. But they had disappeared like so much smoke, and he thought that perhaps the angels had simply removed them while he was not looking – they were certainly empowered with strange abilities.

It was strange, these angels seemed so aloof, so above things. They did not have the pressures of life – no need of continuation through children when they had eternity. Yet there were those that did have children, he reminded himself. Humanity itself was a product of it. Daemons certainly knew of the temptations and uses of flesh, and had plagued mankind often with it.

Sometimes he wondered if that's why the foolish and evil cultists followed such a path – because they could not touch the angels, and the daemons offered an alternative path that beckoned the glory they sought? Even though it was a false promise? One that would end in their own suffering and Hellish torment – but that was the folly of men, he thought.

He supposed that's what a false promise was – that was its intended purpose.

He thought a lot, for a barbarian. But all men did, even if it did not always seem very profound.

(*)

Tyrael himself was perplexed with questions.

What did it mean to be an angel? It was an odd question he had pondered of late. Angels did not question things, they knew them – or they studied the few things that surprised them – but they were creatures of certainty, not curiosity.

They had fashioned cities in the image of what was right, ordained from its beginning to its construction in the manner it was to be – each note placed accordingly, even if such things were a mystery in some manner to lower planes.

The ability to fashion your own plane of existence – your own world. He had founded his fortress in Pandaemonium on a similar foundation. It had been built to contain and protect the original Worldstone of Sanctuary. It was not a temptation that had crossed his path before. Perhaps even angels could be tempted. He shook his head.

And this human decided perhaps he could – with all the knowledge accumulated here. The power of creation – beyond what even the angels had dared since the founding of Sanctuary itself. He did not even know what could occur in that fashion. What would be created from the mind of one twisted human? Perhaps a new Hell instead of a Sanctuary.

(*)

The barbarian had been seeking out conflicts, especially the places of holiness, and had followed the path of angels. Literally.

The angels had descended to speak to the priests of the place. Perhaps they had recorded knowledge, even in the short span of their traditions of this world, that would be useful to the angels – for they had learned not all things could be found in the Book of Fate, especially not where the humans, the Nephalem in particular, were concerned. For some reason, Fate seemed to either favour them, ignore them, or brush them only with a light hand, too light to be legible in the Book. But they, it seemed, were given a precious gift – to be able to become masters of their fate.

"In a manner, we had created this world to be our church," the angelic being said to the priest, who was currently suppressing the instinct to quail. "You see the irony, don't you? Instead of a sanctuary, the demons broke in through its innate flaws, and used it as a hunting ground."

The barbarian had entered into such a scene, for he knew the angels would be here.

"That's what it is, you know," the angel continued – his face unknown to the barbarian. "Unholiness is the corruption, the flaws, in the original intended harmony, its holiness, which naturally, came from the angels. Perhaps that's what they needed, the mortar to mix it and make it work. Humans have long been a mystery to me in that fashion. They lack the freeness of a spirit, but their souls are so grand as a soul should be."

"To consecrate this ground, we are restoring it to the original blessing, a part of the holiness from the Arch itself – to borrow some of its music to realign, to make it remember, to renew the harmony that made it strong. To repair the cracks."

The barbarian nodded. Now he understood why. This ground had been one of the most soiled by Diablo's touch. It was not quite Tristram, but for some reason, the chapel, perhaps any chapel, seemed to draw them like flies – and not all had been fortunate enough to have knights to defend them. And many were now strewn with the bodies of dead ones.

Many adventurers had perished, it was true. It was hard for the barbarian to say whether this was a tragic thing, or if he was impressed with the indomitability of the human spirit. Not everyone had his natural size. Not everyone fought the demons on equal terms, but they fought with daring and courage nonetheless.

The priest said something that was lost to his ears, but the angel's response was more than easily heard, as if it spoke for everyone present.

"Your priests are worthy, and that is why we have used them. We were fascinated to see humans learn of holiness – their piety amazed us, and even we occasionally stopped to listen to their sermons. Almost… almost as if it was intended that way…"

It shrugged – he - peering down at the human it loomed over, but not consciously, as if it forgot it was floating. "Destiny is a funny thing." It commented.

"With us occupied fighting the daemons, someone was needed in order to maintain these things, to keep them, you, safe, when we could not always be at your side to avenge you. So you can see why the order that Tyrael founded was so necessary, at least in his eyes."

The angel turned, although the barbarian knew it must have seen him all along. There was something like a twinkle under its hood, almost like a wink, and it seemed for a moment that the barbarian recognised him. But then he lifted his cloak, there was a faint outline, like a flurry of a wing, and then the angel was gone. Not far, perhaps – the angels were searching the grounds, and the priests and knights were virtually in astonishment at the sight.

(*)

Tyrael still descended the catacombs, searching for what Malthael left behind even here, as well as Pandemonium. He understood things no other angel had seen, and perhaps that knowledge alone was worth something.

With the Horadrim, Tyrael searched this ancient place – as he had still discovered the power within himself, and within the great works left behind in Sanctuary long ago, to transport himself from place to place, if no longer with the glory he was once accustomed to.

Images of demons impaling angels over the great stone that the warrior had discovered, and even as he watched they seemed to move. What plane of psychic torment did it tap into?

He stepped forward to touch it. He did not know what would happen – but there was only one way to explore these questions. Reticence was not one of his traits.

These planes, especially those of the daemons, were twisted and formed by the torments and trails of the mind. "The paths and roads through the mind are more spacious and easier to navigate than you think," he said with a wink, but it was to his own reflection.

He spoke to himself sometimes, and was surprised occasionally by the words he found therein. Such was the words and wisdom of angels, and thus many prophecies were recorded by the Horadrim and even before. These catacombs were full of them, and he supposed no mortal or generations of mortals could ever read them all.

Angels had the Book of Fate, greater than all mortal libraries – yet there was wisdom to be discovered in these endless pages locked in this mundane vault. For what was wisdom if it could not be understood? What was Fate if there were no eyes to perceive it?

Such things, he might have plied Malthael, the archangel of Wisdom for.

Perhaps there was more to learn down here than even the angels knew. He would use this new mortal flesh to find them.

He observed the empty socket. "An angel must have done it – but which?" He mused, cursing his mortal senses. His sword retained its great power, he felt great happiness being reunited with it – but he had sacrificed much in his fall to the mortal realm, known as Sanctuary.

_A Sanctuary that could become a prison if the demons have their way._

Darkness and shadow had reigned all across the lands. The light of angels had broken it so rarely it was no wonder they had been forgotten. Even though images of them still adorned great palaces, they were as remote as the distance to Heaven itself.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

GATHER THE HEROES

* * *

Tyrael had gathered the heroes together, in a place they knew well. There was a link here that could take them far over the land, transported by its magical runes, and thus it made a strategic location. Tyrael himself had ensured protective wards, allowing only the use by those trusted and of innocent intent.

"It seems the human lands are working at war, themselves. The threat of the great demon lord Azmodan dissipated, they have turned to each other, already forgetting how closely they escaped eternal damnation. Azmodan would have spread Hell to the entire surface of the world without humanity's will, he would have enslaved innocent man and woman to the wheel of torment like his own imps, and their suffering would have fuelled the engines of Hell."

He sank down for a moment, weariness overcoming his supernatural strength for a moment it seemed.

"Perhaps if I could regain what I lost," he flexed his fist for a moment.

He and the Nephalem fought. He taught the barbarian what he could of angelic victories – hoping that the battle wisdom might strengthen him for the war ahead. The barbarian, so called, was an able student of battle and war – and Tyrael was almost amused that it fell to Justice to teach him, not the Angel of Valour who had led many battles. But perhaps such ironies were the way of ultimate Goodness, and it was apt.

(*)

Far away, another companion the barbarian knew, was preparing himself – and had found himself entangled with Templar politics once again, despite having destroyed their order before they could carry out a plot his moral conscience could not have stood for.

But now, he faced an accuser, for one of the other Templar who still lived in the world had found him instead. Framed by the firelight, the two men stood ready against each other, although the man that accused him drew no weapon except his words. Perhaps knowing, that one that had aided in felling Diablo, and had slaughtered the highest of Templar, would not bend to any threat, and unlikely to fall to a sword, either. Yet still he came, and he, who still thought of himself as Templar, although his name was… Kormac… yes, it was…

Doubts plagued him about his memories sometimes, but he was… almost… certain… that was his true name. Although he did not understand why that would have been kept on his past. He awaited the knowledge that he would discover it to be something else instead, but somehow he did not yet remember. Perhaps the unravelling of the scars that hid his memories was not entirely complete.

"The templar wished only to protect this world against the whims of Heaven and Hell in their conflict," he hissed. "Who are _you _to judge them for it. Where will the Templar be now? Who will men turn to if _another Angel of Death _preys on them?!"

And for a moment, the Templar was at a loss. For a time now, he had thought of himself as the last Templar. Was it so easy to toss it aside? Foolish, of course – although they had struck at the heart of the order, and the great plans for recruitment had not yet begun – the Templar still numbered in the hundreds all over the world, in different chapters.

And now he had to be wary. He had not questioned it, he had struck at the heart of corruption, and whatever the consequences, he had no regrets.

He had not questioned it- except for now.

They had aligned themselves against the angels – the great foes of Hell – was that not simple? It was not the only thing that had passed through his mind. Their torture, their lies, the entire Templar Order was itself a lie. "You thought you were sinless? Are you so quick to claim you are clean?"

"None for which I was judged!" the Templar said back – his uncertainty disappeared like a shadow under the sunlight in the face of the accusation. "They told me I was a sinner and had come to them to be cleansed – a way of holiness to those without any! But it was a lie, I was simply a soldier… a likely recruit – and they took my memories of their abuse."

"Then consider this. If, several years ago, a Templar had entered the hall, and slain all those there, claiming the Order to be a farce – would you not be the first to scorn him? The first to lead a contingent to chase and murder him?"

"You thought _doubt _was a sign that something was wrong with the order? Did you not think that perhaps doubt sometimes exists for it's own reason?"

"You speak smartly – but it's quite besides the point." The Templar said quietly, rage building in him at the words.

He pointed his sword to emphasise his next ones. "It was a lie. Sometimes we learn that too late – but we learn it all the same."

(*)

It was weeks before the Templar could join the barbarian and the others, and they stood in that meeting place together, to make their plans for the future, if there were any. For it was a little foolish, perhaps, to so quickly abandon an alliance that had thwarted the very essence of Evil, until they were certain its purpose was no longer called for.

"I was concerned for Leah's very soul. Who knows where she is… now…?"

"Could she have survived such a union with Diablo?"

He shuddered and looked at him with a tormented expression. "Do not use that word, please…"

"I am sorry, my friend. But if I but knew how…"

"Even the angels do not. Whatever is to occur, it will be not be by the angels."

"The universe then. I have noticed it acts in odd ways. Even the angels are not immune to it, though they embody its cosmic properties."

"If you cannot believe in angels, but you must believe in something… call it fate, or destiny, but always, there must be hope."

"I find that more dismal than encouraging, but I believe I know what you mean."

He thought of his adventure in the plane of Pandemonium, where he had travelled with the angels Tyrael and Imperius to confront their brother, Malthael, in the heart of that… blessed and damned fortress, depending on the vagaries of possession.

He had a mind to go back and free those monstrous thralls, although who knew what unleashing them on the world would mean. Although they were demons, and eternal torment was their punishment for it, it was evil, and that was it's very nature. He wondered at the cosmic significance of these things, perhaps it was something he was still to understand – and foolish actions too early were often poor battle wisdom. He did not doubt that he could do it.

"All things are warped by perception – even this place," Tyrael had said in Heaven, as he gestured around him at the lofty, amazing towers and angelic edifice. The glowing stands and artifacts, the bowls poured out at the bosom of angels, graceful and beautiful, heads bowed, so that it hushed one's thoughts and settled a sense of peace and calm around the visitors, without leaving them tired.

"To be otherwise could force a power on people they are not ready for. That is why some places have been barred – they are places of power and light to my people, but it could be unsettling to the unprepared. To touch once again the places of harmony we came from, to renew the song in our heart, but one a human may never have heard in its full form before."

"There is much we don't know about the destiny of humans. To rip away the flesh and bare them to the ultimate light could be troubling."

A night or so passed as the barbarian (for such was as he was best known) and the Templar spoke with Tyrael. There was much to discuss, for it seemed there was a mystery yawning before them – but their minds were on a particular quest.

(*)

Some time later, the angel was doing his part for it.

The angel Tyrael descended into the place, a rift of Hellish imagining, twisted with a plane touched by angels. He had many places to search, and many of them had paths that could be found here in the Fortress he had designed.

He saw the spirit of Adria twisting there in torment. "He's a demon, Adria, perhaps the greatest one of them all – he never cared for you in the first place. You would have lost more than you imagined had you succeeded, that would make your torment here seem a light breeze in a garden of paradise by comparison."

And her spirit wept, but still she did not call to him. Despite her torment, she still didn't yield to him, and so he passed on and left her there.

Hands reached out to grab at him. Damned souls that did not escape Malthael. He could do nothing for them now. He floated down on nothingness, surveying the grand globe, the Planestone. No longer shrouded in the glory of an angel, still he was not entirely without ability.

(*)

The barbarian as well, felt sadness for the memory of Adria, as well as the anger which had abated. He had heard about her – even spoke to her – and it seemed somehow astonishing to him that she was no less than the witch she appeared. Madness of a sort – the signs were there, so obvious, not even attempting to disguise themselves, but because of that, he was looking for the wrong ones, and at some point he had stopped asking the questions he should have had at the forefront.

It was a sad lesson, and not one he really wanted to learn, despite that his people valued that above all else. He wondered how it would affect his decisions in the future. If he ever found another like, but one that chose a different path.

To be a witch was no good calling, but he did not want to believe it was so simple - that any woman who called herself a witch, despite no great evil, should automatically be signed up for murder before she could commit some great evil – such as summoning _Diablo _through the body of her own daughter!

And at the last, he had been with the party that had struck her down, and the priests had made him no wiser for it, even though he had seen the flesh of Hell bared before him in her own.

The horror of that child, sacrified to the greatest demon lord, as its plaything, to be its body – it lurked in him still, it crawled under his skin with fingers as dark as any of the demons he fought. And so none of their horrors and abominations could touch him as it had.

Tyrael mentioned it, once. The angels could see the horror in his eyes, and he did not even argue it. It was a demon he did not know how to exorcise, and it was his greatest one. Fitting, really.

He wondered if he would weep if he let down his guard enough. He did not know if he would appear foolish – in the sight of Heaven if not himself. Not since a boy had he done so.

He did not wish to mourn – he was searching for something, although he did not know what. And he did not intend to sacrifice her again to his own emotions if it was possible to… what? Find her lost spirit? Redeem her corruption from Hell?

He did not even know what had happened to her soul – only the words of Myriam had given him any small comfort at all.

(*)

The Enchantress was battling a large cat when he found her.

Tentacles writhed from beneath the stones, as if seeking to grasp them, together they warded off the attack, striking with steel and magic. He was fortunate to possess a barbarian's strength, he knew well that it took a strong fighter to attack the forces of Hell with naught but mortal weapons.

Such men he had gathered together in a company, to watch each others backs against the demons. To be a soldier when the demons made war – it was dark times.

Although, if the angels and spirits spoke truly, he was not just a mere man, a barbarian of his tribe, but had the ancestry of a Nephalem, those who seemed born with a gift of strength, given a greater disposition to make such foes of themselves, and often had unusual powers.

He did not know his own, save for his ferocity, cunning and might in battle. The gift of a life-time of hardship, training, battle and his own endurance. And much more besides, he supposed – as if a man could be summed up so easily. Perhaps that's truly what it meant, and yet he saw that same strength all around him – the strength of a human spirit. It was great in some people, and obscured in others, but always, that was what tied him to his fellow man – they were all a part of something great in that fashion.

Perhaps time, and the angels, would tell what that meant.

Swiftly they dispatched the enemies that surrounded her – for she had been attempting to cleanse what was once a home of sorts for her. Demons had made their roost there, and she was determined to destroy them.

He had once scorned Azmodan for being a demon of cunning only, without the strength to make it matter – but that is truly what he meant. Cunning alone was worthless. After all, a spider was cunning, but few of those spiders one found in the pantry were poisonous enough to bother a grown man. It was the same with demons, he felt – a simple bit of barbarian wisdom, perhaps – although the name could be wearisome at times, conjuring as it did an image he had no hand in.

She agreed to join him again when it was time, when he found… Leah… He did not know how, what plane of existence her spirit languished in, when even the angels could not find her. But there was no quest more sufficient.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

THE CHAPEL

* * *

He entered the town some days later, having heard of it partly from rumour, partly from the recommendation of Tyrael and the angels, who did have some small words of advice to guide his search. It seemed to him that they were with-holding much, and he was on occasion possessed of a suspicion that they were misdirecting him, but he gradually got over it and decided to take them on… faith…

The barbarian had found a new ground of battle here. Demons had appeared again, underneath the chapel. As he had done before, he had searched out signs and followed them to the breaking of Hell. But there were no angels here, merely men.

They came, chittering and squawling. He was prepared. He tossed the torch, and the oil lit ablaze, the tinder and branches snapping and cracking furiously in the sudden heat.

Their bodies cast an eldritch outline as they were consumed and blasted into nothingness by the explosive oil flame, their bodies as brittle as the branches that burned. To think of these monstrosities that had been lurking under the town all the time. Like New Tristram. He had travelled much, seeking out these sites of corruption, receiving guidance where he may, and rooting out the cause of evils as they sprang up across the lands.

He laid many things, skeleton kings and the ghosts of murderers, back into graves to rest. To the angels their spirits would be committed, and as for the demons, he sent them back to the Hell where they belonged. Rotting corpses and gnashing fiends, they all met his sword, and if possible, he grew even stronger. He learned much of battling demons in the process. He could not fight them all, and escaped a few unexpected fiends looking for vengeance, escaping by a narrow whisper that left him troubled and disturbed, feeling those claws and fingers scraping along the hairs of his flesh.

The knights knew powerful prayers, spells, that called down light from Heaven itself, and he admitted, despite all he had learned as a Nephalem, that was still beyond him. The angels had not enlightened him, and he suspected simply because they didn't think it concerned him.

He wondered and almost envied the knights, although most of them were unaware of those who watched them and their exploits, their fight against the darkness, believing themselves alone except for the sole light that touched them from above. Even they didn't completely understand the honour that was accrued to them.

But a few of them would, and if there were secrets, it would be told to them and not him. He shrugged. That was the way of things. There were things he would have kept secret from angels if he could, even though secrets were not his way. He had always known what to focus on – and a few sacrifices were little pain enough.

He saw a Crusader, once, but no words were spoken between him, as the knight took his ease on the edge. He instinctively recognised a powerful warrior when he saw one, but they had no exchange save for that the Crusader apparently (for his eyes were hidden behind the visor) watched him leave.

Maybe he would learn more of them later – it seemed there were wars brewing, and even the angels were agitated.

They pushed their fingers into her flesh and she screamed.

With a yell, the knight dropped down among them, and instantly decapitated two in his fury, chopping their limbs, still leaving their fingers embedded in her flesh and he laid about him. Not a one got close to scratching him with their claws, so great was his might and fury, and soon the demons were dying or fleeing, their body-parts having attained a mercurial alliance with them.

The barbarian had battled with men beneath the chapel, and they had come upon such a scene – finding himself standing shoulder to shoulder with one of their greatest fighters.

"We must get you to a priest," the knight said urgently to the woman, "can you stand, walk? Are you wounded gravely?"

She did not answer, but lay there a moment as if overwhelmed in terror, but then threw herself forward and simply clung to him, weeping.

"She is not possessed," he said. "But she needs a priest, urgently. And perhaps a woman to comfort her, I'm afraid my plate armour is of little use." He say wryly, but strongly. And he recognised the knight was simply doing his best, a man after all, beneath the fantastic warrior.

A worthy man in battle, if there were not other concerns.

These things were provided, and food and drink besides. The knight stayed long enough to see her needs were met, although she seemed greatly frightened to see him leave. He watched, and understood that was why he moved so quickly – rescuing a poor victim of Hell's grasp was likely to leave them with wounds he could not heal. He wanted them to rely on the church and other powers, instead of developing an unnecessary attachment to him.

The barbarian smiled, hiding it with his hand. He thought it a little foolish, but he did understand. The man was young, and doing his best in both worlds.

He himself, would not have been averse to spending the time to lift their spirits and reassure them – but the knight trusted in others, which was perhaps wise enough in its own way.

After the battle was done, they exchanged many words, there was smiles, and food shared. The priests would reconsecrate this ground, with the mysterious powers they seemed to command or had learned -for the Horadrim were amongst them again.

And for a moment, it was good.

He spoke with the knights who rested at the chapel, wearied and wounded, in spirit as much as flesh, after battling with the demons of Hell for so many long weeks, months, without respite, without healing. They told him what they knew, as he sought to find both the beginning and the end of his quest so he could be prepared for it, having waged battles like this before, and with the training and wisdom of angels now to equip him, for he had never taken quite such a purpose before. Always, there were battles, because the demons warred on man – but now he was seeking them out, seeking answers. It troubled him at first, but he allowed himself time to adjust to this new way, unless he felt he was on… solid ground… as they said.

"There is much we didn't know about Diablo, about the Hell that spawned him. We have seen so much more of Hell now than we ever thought we would. Things that strain the mind, leaves you with nightmares filled with terrors that linger long after the demon-spawn are dead. The things they do… would do, given the chance… How can a man rest?"

The barbarian shrugged off the man's words. He simply ensured that the baldric about his shoulders was tight and his armour would ward off the crude and fiendish steel of demon's blows.

He drew his sword, and steeled his mind, and entered the crypt.

Somewhere in Hell, Diablo smiled.

_END OF PART ONE. TO BE CONTINUED._


End file.
